


sex is a drug

by scrapbullet



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The infamous Handsome Bob," Johnny says, and his words are muffled round the cigarette that sticks to his upper lip, slick with saliva, "come for a little chat have we? S'been a while."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	sex is a drug

Johnny Quid sprawls on the couch like a tomcat in heat, chest bare and jeans slung low on hips sharp as knives. There is an almost feline grace to the way that he moves; stretches his supine back in a sensuous arc, eyes closed and lips tight around an unlit cigarette, an untidy roll-up with tobacco hanging haphazardly from the tip. He passes a polished Zippo lighter from one hand to the other, quick, sharp movements that speak of a man that, despite having spent years shuddering through withdrawal and addiction, has come out the other side all the stronger.

In mind as well as body.

"The infamous Handsome Bob," Johnny says, and his words are muffled round the cigarette that sticks to his upper lip, slick with saliva, "come for a little chat have we? S'been a while." A lazy eye flicks open to regard a Bob that sits perched on the arm of the couch, shoulders slouched and head cocked with a mischief and intensity on his face that sparks something visceral deep in Johnny's gut.

Huh. Funny, that. He's never thought of Bobski in that way before. No denying the bastard's a looker, though.

"I heard you were out of rehab," and Bob's fingers tap a drumbeat on furniture that has seen better days, "thought I'd pay you a visit." He regards Johnny with piqued interest, eyes lingering on a stomach that is no longer concave from days with nothing more than the bitter taste of heroin and cocaine in the back of his throat. Suffice to say that Johnny fucking Quid has filled out rather nicely, though he remains slender and strong with a musculature that is hard as nails.

Johnny huffs, "One Two and Mumbles didn't wanna say hi, then? S'a pity. I have so missed their _stimulating company_."

"They don't know I'm here."

"Oh?" Now _that_... that's fascinatin', really. "Now why would you come here without tellin' 'em, eh Bobby-boy? Did you miss my pretty face that much?" Johnny lights the cigarette with a flourish and it burns bright, orange and hot for a brief moment as he inhales; the one little sin he just can't kick. Flicking ash into a marble ashtray he pulls Bob down on top of him, absorbing the weight of his old friend with ease, long fingers locked onto the checked blue shirt.

"C'mon... tell Auntie Johnny. Spill the beans," he breathes and Bob's eyes narrow, his heartbeat fluttering like butterfly wings beneath Johnny's fingers and suddenly those pupils blow open wide with apparent lust.

"You're so full of yourself," Bob says, and it'd be funny if it weren't for the fact that his voice is husky and his hard cock presses insistently against Johnny's hip, hot and heavy. They're so close they can breathe each other's air, and when Johnny exhales smoke he just lets it all in, lets it fill him up from the inside out. His eyes closed and his lashes are clumped and wet against the pale arc of his cheekbones, and Johnny will be fucking _damned_ if he waxes poetic about a bloke's bloody _eyelashes_.

Goddamn pansy.

Well. It just so happens he's secure enough in his masculinity to admit he likes taking it up the arse.

But not this time, mate.

Palming Bob's peaked nipple through soft, worn cotton Johnny delights in the moan that passes Bob's lips, savours the way those plush lips part and a slick tongue flicks out to wet them, dry and barren as the desert. Bob is beautiful like this, straddling Johnny's hips and bracing himself with arms that tremble, wanting nothing more than to drop down and rut against Johnny like a wave, rut and grind until the taste of come and sweat is rife in the air.

Johnny bites, quick and vicious. His teeth sink into Bob's jugular and the moan turns breathless, high and sweet, hips jerking in a bid to find friction.

But not today.

Laughing low and deep and rumbling in his rib cage as he presses his palm against Bob's chest and _pushes_ with a strength that is undeniable. Slipping out from beneath him he is a boneless tomcat, is our Johnny, smug and satisfied whilst Bob only slumps forward, cheeks red and eyes glassy, utterly aroused.

"Of course I am," Johnny says, and he stretches languidly, lazily taking a drag of the cigarette, "were you expecting anything less?"


End file.
